


Coping Strategies

by springbok7



Series: An Assortment of Teas and Biscuits [14]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Averse, established poly relationship, touch-averse character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-10 18:29:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15297462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7
Summary: Q and James deal with the coping strategies Alec develops after he is rescued from an extended capture.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts), [AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/gifts), [Dassandre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/gifts).



> You know why. Thank you!
> 
> Beta-ed by the stalwart [Dassandre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre). All remaining errors and typos are mine. Please feel free to let me know if you spot any and/or feel there should be additional tags. I welcome constructive criticism, but neither support or feed trolls.
> 
>    
>  _I do not own these characters. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from this piece of fan-fiction._
> 
>  
> 
> Written 14 July 2018

The first time it happens, Q is returning from the loo and hears faint whimpering.  In the dim light spilling in from the hallway outside the bedroom, he can see Alec twitching where he lies, in the centre of the bed, shoulders flat to the mattress but legs curled left towards Q’s empty spot.

James lies in his usual weird sprawl: on his belly, one leg half off the mattress, both arms shoved up under his pillow, and his face smashed against the sheet between his biceps.  

Q makes the mistake of reaching out to Alec as he whispers softly, “Alec, love, wake up. Are you alright?”

He doesn’t get more than those short sentences out of his mouth before his hand lands on Alec’s arm, and Alec’s right hook lands on Q’s jaw.

His left swings as well, but Q has landed on his bum a metre from the bed and is no longer in range. His eyes are wide as saucers in the dim light.

James is awake for the second swing and manages to catch Alec’s wrists, flip him onto his belly, and pin him there with a knee between his shoulders.

The moments that follow are filled with struggling -- on Alec’s part -- teeth-gritted endurance -- on James’ part -- and, once he’s recovered from the shock, more words on Q’s part:  a soft-toned but firm voice just loud enough to be heard from where he stands, out of range of the commotion.

When Alec finally wakes enough to realise where he is and, more importantly,  _ who  _ he is with, he spews a stream of Russian curses into the mattress and finally -- finally! -- goes limp beneath James.

Q’s self-preservation instincts are apparently as defective as a Double O’s: he immediately climbs back onto the bed and lies down with his face centimetres from Alec’s, his hands petting what bits of Alec he can reach with James’ knees and hands still holding him down.

To his credit, James maintains the pin only long enough to see that Alec is neither fighting him nor resisting Q’s touch.  He releases Alec’s wrists, and shifts off his back, to lie down at Alec’s side, opposite Q. James strokes Alec’s hair and says nothing at all.

Alec doesn't move from where James’ hold left him and pants into the sheet while his heart slows.

After a time -- no one is paying enough attention to know how long -- a shudder passes down his muscular form, and Alec slides his arms down, pushes himself up off the mattress, and flips himself over.

He looks at Q’s face and winces. He reaches out his hand, then hesitates.  It drifts back towards his side. Alec doesn’t have the courage to actually touch the mark he’s left on Q’s face.

Q doesn’t let him withdraw, though.  Catching Alec’s hand in elfen fingers, he presses the palm against his cheek.  He will have a spectacular bruise the next day, they all know that.

“It’s okay, love.  I might need you to kiss my bum better later, but I’m fine.  Are you?”

Alec huffs a strangled laugh at the quip and closes his eyes.

Takes a deep breath.

“‘M sorry.  Flashback. Didn’t ... Lost track of where ...  I’m sorry I hit you.”

The look he gives Q is heartbroken, and Q’s breath hitches at the pain he sees in those eyes.

“Oh, love, lovie, Alec, you’ve not done anything I’ve not already done to myself.”

Alec’s eyes widen, and James props his head up on his fist and quirks an eyebrow at his lover.

Q clears his throat.  He’s forgotten that while these two men are his lovers, they are also mercurial in their ability to change moods, are both Double Os ... and he’s just given them an opening.

_ Shite _ .

“Er, well, that is ...” his voice trails off as twin smirks now look back at him.

“Oh, fuck it,” he grumbles, and then sighs, and then confesses his ‘sins.’

“I may have -- once! One time! -- knocked myself literally arse over tit when I was testing the explosivity of that chemical I used to make the patch-bombs, last year.  I’m certain you both recall it ...”

He looks away in embarrassment, but not before he’s seen that the confession has had its desired effect: two delighted Double Os are now flat on their backs, laughing.  

Wankers.

“Fuck you,” he tells them.  “Would you have even listened to me after that if I’d told you the truth?  At least a ‘sparring accident’ made some kind of sense at the time!”

He smiles though.  The redirection has worked and is worth any amount of embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let me know what you think? <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to Mac, Ashe, and Dassandre for the hand-holding over the last few days. Not sure I'd have made it through in one piece without you guys! Thank you! <3
> 
> Here, have an angst chapter in return :D

The second time it happens -- two nights after the first -- no one gets hit.  Not physically at least. So that’s a win, right?

Some part of the dream -- No. No lies in his own head: the God-awful  _ nightmare _ \-- isn’t anything new.  But the combination of elements leaves Alec shaking and sweating and nauseous.  

The first part he remembers is a scene that has played out in his dreams for years, and to some degree he is used to it:

The bite of chains holding him suspended, his toes scrabbling for purchase on a slick surface while phantoms with the faces of reptiles -- this time crocodiles -- beat him with rods of wood, and of ice, and of liquid fire that melts the flesh from his bones, adding it to the slime beneath his toes.  The weight that hangs from his wrists never diminishes no matter how much of his flesh is sloughed off. Sibilant whispers fill his ears, but he can’t understand what they are saying. He only knows the sound consumes him with fear. 

He is screaming, he is certain of that, he must be; he’s in  _ agony _ .  

He hears no sound.

Nothing but those awful whispers, tickling at the edge of his brain.

The second part he remembers is not so ... benign.  It chills him to the bone:

A hard surface digging into his hips, ice against his belly.  Struggling to rise but trapped by the vines twining around his wrists and forearms, holding him down against the frigid surface under him.  Struggling, frantic, kicking his legs, or trying to. More vines around his ankles tightening in response, pulling taut, his legs straining at the spread.

A touch -- also ice cold -- upon his back, but he cannot lift his head or crane his neck far enough to see past his shoulder.

A voice against his ear as a weight presses into his back.  The sibilant whispers return. 

They use James’ voice.  

He shouts, thrashing beneath the weight, and the vines are everywhere, coiling up his arms, filling his nose and his mouth and pouring down his throat to stifle his scream.  

They wind around his legs as well, over his knees and under his thighs. The weight on his back is gone, and the vines twine around his hips and his belly and his ribs.  

He is covered in them, every centimetre wrapped in vines except his arse.  A heartbeat to realise the significance before he is impaled, split apart in fiery agony that goes on and on and  _ on _ .

He can’t scream can’t breathe can only feel, and he feels it, he  _ feels  _ it down to his core, and he wants to die but he can’t, he doesn’t, and  _ now _ he can understand the words, spoken in that depraved imitation of James’ voice: “You like it, don’t you, little spy, little traitor?  Begging me to fuck you, fill you. I can feel you, little whore, such a slut for my cock, aren’t you?”

He wants to deny it, wants to spit venom but he can’t.  

The vines silence him even as they hold him in place, force him to take it and take it and  _ take it _ .

The third part he remembers is agonizing without the presence of any significant pain, and causes him to burn with horror: 

Kneeling on a smooth surface, tile or something similar.  His hands pressed to the small of his back. He can’t see, doesn’t know if he’s in the dark or blindfolded or actually blind.

He can hear voices above him, around him.  He doesn't understand, can’t focus on the sounds or catch the words as the voices ebb and flow.  Somehow in the dream he knows the voices don’t matter, are none of his concern, and he kneels and he kneels and he waits.

A new voice joins in: Q’s.  He shudders at the forgery. His dream-self is afraid, but his waking self no longer remembers why.

A touch on his jaw and his mouth opens.  A cock thrusts in, and in, and  _ in _ .  He is choking, gagging, desperate for breath before it pulls back, and he has half a second to fill his lungs before it returns.  How long this goes on he doesn’t know. The voices continue to converse above him, hemming him in, surrounded by sound, trapping him like an insect on a pin.  The cock is sliding out of his mouth, sliding along his lips and he doesn’t taste come but the acrid tang of burnt wood. The head of that cock glides across his lips and then along his jaw, then down the side of his neck and across his nape.

And then around to press on his Adam’s apple.

He remains kneeling and still -- his hands a constant pressure in the small of his back and his mouth wide open, waiting -- as it circles around his neck a second time, looping his throat in cock like some obscene necklace before sliding up his chin and into his mouth again.

Down his throat.

The loops around his neck tighten, and the intruder in his mouth moves further back, flows down his throat, and he can’t breathe as it thrusts into him. Can’t breathe as a harsh hold grips his head and tips it back, can’t think but of fear as Q’s voice thunders above him: “Such a good puppy.  You were made for this, slut. Such a whore for my cock. Tight. So tight and wet and hot. Look how pretty you are, begging for my prick in your throat. On your knees, waiting for us to fill you all up.”

He wants to deny it, wants to escape it, wants to stop it.  But it goes on and on and  _ on _ until hands slide down his ribs and he’s forced onto all fours with Q’s cock still wrapped around his neck and thrusting down his throat and another cock is in his arse, pounding him, pounding against his prostate and he can feel the orgasm building in him and he hates it and himself and he’d scream if he could, fight if he could, but his body does nothing but hang there between them as his knees and palms slide on the smooth surface under him, taking everything they give to him even as they take everything from him.  

The horror he feels is overwhelming.  Why can’t he move? Why can’t he fight?

How can he just  _ let  _ them do this to him?

James’ voice returns, poisonous words dripping into his soul, “You like it, don’t you, little spy, little traitor?  I can feel you, little whore. You beg so well, little slut. You love to beg for it, don’t you? Must’ve had a lot of practice, you’re so good at it.  Such a slut for my cock, aren’t you? Come for your masters, little whore. Show us the only thing you’re good for, poor little broken whore. Show us how much you love being fucked by real men!”

The orgasm that rips through his dream-self wakes his real-self, and catapults him out of bed to stand in the middle of the dimly lit bedroom.  He is awake, he knows that, but the scenes continue to flash against the backs of his eyelids again and again.

Great lungfuls of air are drawn in and pushed out as he pants.  He feels like he’s been hit by a lorry. Aches in every part of him -- dream-self and waking self and the body that has endured so much -- the parts that are healing, and the parts that have healed, and the parts that may never be. 

“Alec, love? Are you alright?”

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that James has spoken.

He whirls to face his lovers.  In their concern both James and Q climb from the bed, but in the dim light they look far too much like spectres, like the apparitions from his nightmare.  

Their sleep-roughened voices grate across his nerves.  Sibilant in the darkness.

He knows it’s not them. He  _ knows _ they would never hurt him, but -- 

“Stay away from me!   _ Don’t touch me _ !”

He doesn’t recognise his own voice, and and rather than face their rejection, he turns and flees the room, thundering down the stairs to the kitchen, flipping on all the lights in the house so not a single shadow remains.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Alec. Poor, poor Alec!


	3. Chapter 3

He sits at the dining table with his head in his hands, a glass of water untouched near his elbow. The images remain stark in his mind’s eye.  Everything has become twisted, jumbled together. He remembers snippets, glimpses, snapshots, and his blood runs cold and his stomach churns. 

The dream -- the  _ nightmare  _ \-- isn’t precisely what happened to him.  No crocodiles and no snakes, and certainly no James and Q. 

But the rest?

Beaten with sticks and hit with fists and kicked by booted feet?  Yup.

Cut with knives and whipped when his captors wanted a change of pace? Yeah, check that off the list.

Left for hours hanging by his bound hands from a chain, feet barely able to support his weight?  Yup, check that one off, too.

Tied down and taunted and raped?  Yeah, been there, done that.

Worse than ‘just’ rape, being made to choose: mutilation or rape.  Forced to participate in his own degradation, to beg for the lesser of two evils while cruel laughter surrounded him, mocked and derided when he finally chooses the humiliation over the amputation?  Yup, tick that fucking box off as well.

He’d been so weak when Six finally found him -- unable to walk on his own, dehydrated and malnourished, his body bruised and battered and torn, inside and out.  

And for what?  His captors hadn’t been interested in the intel he could have given them, and he hadn’t had the information they  _ did  _ want.  

He paid the price for that many-fold.

He’d been kept in Medical for an eternity.  Weeks, he thinks, though he never asked. Maybe months.  He doesn’t really want to know.

Speaking of, time passed strangely as he lay in that hospital bed.  Dragging. Crawling along, and yet never enough time between one intrusion and the next.

He’d been visited regularly by the parasites from Psych.  Bunch of fraudsters, conmen, worse. How the fuck will  _ talking  _ help?  How will mere  _ words  _ do anything?  The scars will not fade with his words or his anger or his tears.  The wounds will heal but he’ll carry the scars for the rest of his life.

And his soul?  That which makes him  _ him _ ?  He knows the scars are there too, unseen.  Well, he likes to believe they are hidden, but the looks he gets from James, and from Q, sometimes ... perhaps he doesn’t hide them as well as he thinks he does.

He has no idea how long he was in the hands of the terrorists.  It’s another thing he doesn’t want to know. Can’t bring himself to care how much time this whole clusterfuck -- heh, no pun intended -- has cost him.  He could figure it out if he chose: find out what day he’d been taken and do the maths. He can’t be bothered. It’s not important.

It will change nothing.

He knows they are all dead.  He’s seen the photos, their bodies scattered like matchsticks from a box.  Q gave him that. So did James.

Hell, a third of the Double O division got in on that action, and he’s never been so grateful for the sense of belonging as he is when Antea LeBeau, 003, visits him in Medical and reports that no fewer than four Double Os helped dismantle the terrorists’ network, and that three of those four had fought -- literally -- through the ranks of their fellows to win those coveted spots.

He still can’t quite believe it, despite the footage LeBeau’d shown him of the impromptu tournament.  MMA’s got  _ nothing  _ on those guys!  A dizzying display of dirty, no-holds-barred, winner-take-all fighting, and more than a minor miracle that no one was seriously hurt.  

He loves them for it, and she was kind enough to find her fingernails fascinating when the moisture in his eyes overflowed.

He raises his head from his hands and downs the water in several long swallows.

His throat is raw, feels lacerated and bloody, though the doctors have assured him that the damage has healed.

His ribs and shoulders and wrists ache, nonetheless.

His arse throbs in time with his heart.

He knows it’s in his head, that the rectal tears and strained shoulders are fully healed as well.  The doctors refused to sign off on his paperwork, refused to even consider discharging him from Medical, until they had.

He  _ knows  _ this.

But he still throbs.  Still feels ghostly hands on his back, his thighs, his cock, his throat.

He drops his forehead to the table, covers his head with his arms, and sobs.

He does not see his lovers -- silent and concerned -- standing on the bottom step of the stairs, watching him with solemn faces unable to help yet desperate to do so.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we get a bit of a glimpse of what Alec actually endured. Poor pabo! <3


	4. Chapter 4

It doesn’t take them all that long to realise that things are ... different.

Shifted.

Changed.

Not broken, though.

Q absolutely loses his shit the one and only time Alec calls himself broken.

Q is so angry, so blindingly furious at his own helplessness, at his inability to have either rescued Alec sooner or saved him from it all in the first place.  He wants the terrorists alive so he can murder them each slowly with his own hands, visit upon them all the pain and suffering and  _ broken  _ that they visited upon Alec.

Neither James nor Alec have  _ ever  _ seen Q in such a state, rage thrumming through his veins. 

Iron control has him pacing and muttering rather than kicking holes in the walls or beating the stuffing out of a punching bag.  Or shooting bottles off a wall behind the house.

It frightens them both, a little, that there is such capacity for violence buried within the usually unflappable Quartermaster.

They do not, however, try to stem the torrent of vitriol spewing from his mouth.  They do not try to dam that torrent because they know it’s a futile effort. 

They have both been there.

They have experienced the what-ifs and the shoulda-coulda-wouldas of missions gone pear-shaped and people -- friends, colleagues, even lovers -- lost due to their actual or perceived mistakes, errors in judgement, oversights.

They have felt the guilt that worms its way into the soul of the survivor and gnaws away at it, piece by piece.

A worm no one can excise but he to whom that soul belongs.

As a Double O, one learns to compartmentalise.

Pack up the emotions and the guilt and the horror from a mission and bury it deep, lock it up tight, pick up the pieces of one’s self, one’s soul, and move on.

The things they have seen.

They cannot unsee.

The things they have done.

They cannot undo. 

One learns to cope, to box up, to bury, and to move forward.

If one doesn’t, one will drown, smother, collapse beneath the weight of it all.

One  _ certainly  _ will not survive as an agent.

One _certainly_ will not make it to Double O status.

So.

Things are different between James and Q and Alec.

The soft, easy companionship is strained at times.

The casual touches that have been an integral part of their relationship since before it was acknowledged that there even  _ was _ a relationship, cease.

Alec flinches if they touch him when he’s not expecting it, when they haven’t telegraphed their intentions explicitly.

It doesn’t end there.

If they speak quietly to each other from across the room, he panics, hyperventilates, almost passes out once.

They learn to speak louder, to knock on door-frames before entering rooms, to talk to him all the time, explaining to him what they are about to do regardless of what it might involve.

It helps, most of the time.

But other things have changed as well.

He can’t focus, can’t concentrate for long, on anything.  Starts projects and then drifts away leaving a jumble of half-completed room-cleanings or gardening or whatever the project was.

He drifts, floats through his days.  Stays in the house and rarely ventures beyond the front door.  Feels untethered, loose, anchorless, and is both glad of it and terrified.  

He is happy enough to spend time watching crap telly with Q and James, fiddling around in the kitchen with James, poring over schematics with Q.  But he’s just as happy when they are away, when they have gone in to Six and left him behind, and he can finally,  _ finally  _ let down his guard in the stillness and quiet of the empty house.

Colleagues are concerned, but circumspect in the expression of that concern.

Tanner drops hints about “mission readiness” and the possibility of different roles within Six.

Moneypenny starts reminding Q and James about “instructional aptitude” and how well Alec did on that Junior Agent refresher he’d been tasked with teaching six years ago, after he busted his ankle.

No one comments on the fact that Alec has yet to step foot in Six since he’s been discharged from Medical.

Nor that he’s been avoiding his “mandatory” Psych sessions and the evals that they would prefer he complete.

It’s been six months, and the physical wounds are all healed, naught but newer scars amongst the many that already litter his skin.

But he still cannot bear the touch of his lovers.

Cannot stomach the thought of being with them that way.

Even though he  _ knows  _ they will not hurt him.  That they have  _ never  _ hurt him.

He can’t stand being told what to do either, bucks it every time, haunted by the ghost of voices telling him to choose, telling him to beg to be fucked in his arse or his mouth or he’ll lose a finger or a toe or an ear or an eye.

He sleeps on a cot in the bedroom.

Q flatly refuses to let him sleep on the sofa and the scowl on James’ face is a good indicator of his opinion on the matter.

They don’t have sex.  Not with Alec and not with each other.

He can’t bear the intimacy that sex would require, and they won’t partake without him.

He thinks them idiots; he can’t even muster morning wood, so what good could he do them anyway?

It is just one more way he is failing them

Until one day, James makes a suggestion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter egg for my lil bros in this chapter :D


	5. Chapter 5

Alec isn’t sure how he feels about James’ suggestion.

He stews on it for several days, a week, while he floats around in the silence of their empty home.

Q and James go in to Six every day.  Q runs missions, James does ... things.

Alec hasn’t failed to notice that James has not been sent out on a mission since Alec was discharged from Medical.

He doesn’t question it.

Out loud.

Inside, he wonders when they will grow tired of his screaming, tired of his neediness, tired of his grief and rage and fear.  

Grow tired of him.

He thinks on James’ suggestion.

What has he got to lose?  He is tired of being broken and tired of them being broken with him.

He collects duvets from the spare bedroom and dumps them on the sofa.  Pushes the furniture out, and away, and clears the space in front of the faux fireplace.

Places the tatty, comfortable armchair at the edge of the space, and spreads the duvets out on top of the rug.

He can’t bear the forced closeness if this were to take place in the bedroom, but here?  Here there is space; the layout combines sitting room, kitchen, dining room into a single room ostensibly separated by furniture and -- in the case of the kitchen -- a waist-high countertop.

He sets out towels and lube and condoms on the table he’s placed beside the armchair.

The book he’s been reading rests on the arm of the chair, and he curls in the space and picks it up.

He ignores the flutter of fear in his belly and focuses on his reading.

Two chapters later, the sound of a key in the lock breaks his concentration, and he looks up as James and Q enter the house, mid-conversation.

That conversation dies instantly when they take in the rearranged furniture.

Alec ducks his head, flushed and embarrassed.  An ugly feeling swirls in his guts.

He hears them toeing off their shoes and shucking their coats, the thumps and rustling loud in the otherwise silent house.

On socked feet they pad closer, and his shoulders hunch closer to his ears.

He recognises the posture as a defensive one, but it is beyond him to relax.

He can see their socks in his periferey but refuses to look up, refuses to see the disdain and disgust on their faces.

“Love, I’m going to come closer,” Q informs him ten seconds before he kneels down in front of Alec.

The only way to avoid looking at Q at his feet is to turn his head away, and Alec is frozen because Q does not look disgusted, does not look disdainful.  He is smiling, a soft and tender smile, and his eyes shine wetly.

He presses his fingertips to his lips and then presses those fingertips to Alec’s knee.

It is the first touch that Alec has not flinched away from since his return to their home and the start of the nightmares when he tried to return to their bed as well.

Q stands, and Alec does not look away, his gaze glued to Q’s.

James steps up behind Q and smiles at Alec, too.  Also soft, and tender, and so, so proud it hurts to see.

“We’re going to go upstairs and get ready.  Can you wait for us here, love? Or do you want to come with?”

Alec’s heart gives a sickly stutter and his face must betray him, for James smiles again, even softer than before, “Hey.  Hey, love, it’s alright. It’s okay. We’ll get ready and come back to you. Just wait for us. Maybe next time, if you want, or the time after that.  Whenever you’re ready and not a moment sooner, got it?”

He nods, struck dumb.  He loves them so much it hurts.

They smile again and head upstairs.

He waits while they shower, while they clean each other inside and out.

He waits.

He knows if it weren’t for them, he’d be dead already.  And not at the hands of his torturers, not at the hands of some no-name terrorist group that has been wiped from the face of the planet.

The hands would have been his own.

How can they stand to even look at him, disgusting, useless creature that he is?

He doesn’t understand.

Doesn’t want to accept their love, doesn’t feel worthy of it.

But when have they  _ ever  _ listened to him?

They don’t believe he is broken.  Don’t believe he is the disgusting, worthless creature he sees every time he looks in the mirror, and sometimes, while they are sitting around the table eating one of James’ dinners, he doesn’t believe it either.

He gets up and draws the curtains, makes sure that all the windows are covered in the thick navy material that Q loves so much.  He has to admit the velvet has a nice feel to it, reminds him of cat fur. Maybe they should get another cat. Q misses his precious Thumbalina still, he knows, even if he grumbled for weeks after Moneypenny deposited the rescued cat in her cat carrier on his desk and wouldn’t take “No” for an answer.  She wasn’t young, but Q had made sure her ‘golden years’ were exactly that -- spoilt queen that she eventually was.

His musings are interrupted by thumping on the stairs.  James and Q make their entrance.

They are both naked and Q blushes slightly as Alec’s eyes travel up and down their forms.  James, by contrast, has never known a moment’s shame about his body.

In the brightness of the lights, neither look like shades or wraiths, and the voices in his head fall silent.

They wait, a pace from the base of the stairs, for him to take several deep breaths and return to his chair.

He sinks down and stares at them.

James meets his gaze with a slight quirk of his eyebrow while Q looks at the floor, his cheeks still faintly pink.

Alec clears his throat, and does his best to dispel the lingering doubt that they really do want to do this.

“Come.”

He points to the centre of the duvet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Progress! <3


	6. Chapter 6

Two pairs of bare feet obey his command instantly, hurrying to the indicated spot.

Q is a little more pink, a little more flushed.  James is loose and relaxed.

Ready for whatever he has in mind.

He doesn’t, though, have anything in mind.

He hasn’t been able to get past this moment, this idea, in his head.  The idea that they would be willing to do this with him, for him.

Astonishing.

He clears his throat again, and points to the duvet.

They sink to their knees, facing him, and he cannot deny the thrill that floods him at the instant obedience.

He isn’t the only one.  

Q’s eyes flick to his and down to the floor again, several times, as they kneel there, and as he stares at the pair, Q’s blush deepens, and his cock chubs, half hard already and no one has touched anyone.

A glance toward James shows his cock in a similar state, and when their eyes meet, James licks his lip, the smirk lost in his anticipation.

Alec leans forward, elbows to knees, and his chin resting on clasped hands.

“Kiss each other,” he instructs.  “Slowly. Show me how much you want it.”

They shuffle around on their knees and James lifts a hand.

“No touching!  Earn it.”

The hand falls, and James pouts for a moment -- honest to God pouts! -- and twists his arms behind himself to clutch an elbow in each hand, as if he knows he won’t be able to resist touching Q if he doesn’t.

Q smirks at him, and then leans in --  _ his  _ hands loose at his sides -- and slides the side of his nose across the stubble on James’ jaw.

James tips his head back, and his lips part as Q traces the contours of his face with his nose, stopping to press tiny, open-mouthed kisses to the corner of his mouth, the hinge of his jaw, the crease beside his nose.

The tenderness in the movement is clear.  Alec can’t help but notice.

James’ eyes have closed, and his breath has quickened, and he moans when Q ceases to explore and fastens his mouth over James’.

Their heads tilt, and Alec can see the moment Q deepens the kiss.  A tension seems to drain from James and Q shuffles closer, kneeling up higher as James sinks back onto his heels.

“Touch him, Q.”

When did his voice grow so hoarse?

The two on the duvet do not react, however, and James’ hands remain gripping his elbows behind him.  Q’s hands lift and settle on James’ biceps, slide up his skin, over his shoulders and cup his jaw, holding his head in place as he continues the kiss.

A hand drifts up his cheek and curls into his hair, tugging James’ head back as Q pulls away from the kiss.

James is panting, his mouth hanging open, his eyes still closed.

Q presses his lips to James’ throat, to his collarbone, to the swell of muscle that is his trapezius.

He looks over at Alec, eyes dark.

“May I?”

Alec nods, and James shivers when Q’s teeth close around a nipple, worrying at the flesh until the areola crinkles and the nub plumps.

A swipe of Q’s tongue and James groans, his hips jerking.

He is hard, and leaking, and yet does nothing, simply waiting for whatever will come.

“Touch him, James.”

James looks at him, and whispers, “Thank you.”

The whisper does not evoke the sibilant sounds of Alec’s nightmares.  He is too busy watching James’ hands uncurl from their white-knuckled grip on his elbows, slide up Q’s arms and shoulders and bury themselves in Q’s riot of curls.

James’ back arches, offering himself up to Q, knees shifting, widening his stance as he balances on knees and toes.

Q obliges, licking, nipping, kissing first one nipple and then the other, and the flesh between them, until James’ chest is flushed pink and slick with spit and teeth-marks lie in a haphazard scatter across his skin.

Q’s hands have shifted to James’ hips, and again he pulls away and turns to Alec.

“Please, may I suck his cock?”

James moans at the question, and his hands fall from Q’s hair as he leans back too far, and drops down to the duvet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up, just a spot :D


	7. Chapter 7

“He’s an eager one, isn’t he?” Alec comments.

A smirk ghosts across Q’s face.  “Yes, he certainly is.”

James, meanwhile, has shifted, straightened his legs to take the pressure off his knees.  Q now kneels between them.

“How eager, you think?”

It’s mostly a rhetorical question, to Alec, but James is caught up in the moment, or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing.  Alec doesn’t know. James’ head lifts and he looks right at Alec, pupils blown wide open, and  _ begs _ .

“Please.  Please, Alec, tell him to suck me.  _  Please! _ ”

What Alec does know is that the sound of James’ ragged begging lances straight from his ears to his cock, and for the first time in weeks -- months! -- he feels himself stir.

“Suck that slutty cock then, Q.  Look at him. He’s gagging for it.”

The words spill from his lips and for a moment he is reminded of another time, another voice uttering similar words to him.

But the moment passes, dispelled before it has a chance to latch on to him by Q’s jaunty “Sir, yes sir!”  There are no more words for a while; Q grips James’ hips and licks at the foreskin, traces the glans with the tip of his tongue, and then swallows James down.

James bucks up into his mouth at the swiftness, at the intensity of the sensation.  He does not reach for Q however, his hands flat at his sides, then fisting in the duvet as Q moves.

He cannot stay silent under the onslaught of Q’s mouth for long, and soon he is moaning, whimpering, guttural groans clawing from the depths of his throat.

His head lifts and turns, his eyes open, and icy blue meets piercing green.

“Please, Alec.  Please let me come.”

His teeth are grit with determination to hold on until he’s been given permission.

Alec stares back at him, wondering at the thrill he feels, the rush of power that sends heat through him, down to his toes.

James groans and his head drops back to the duvet.  He grits out, “Q. Q! Stop, love. Please,  _ stop _ !”

Q pulls back when James’ plea registers, James’ cock sliding free of his mouth with a lurid pop.

He stares at James for a moment, and then turns to Alec who is staring back at them, slightly bewildered.

James, meanwhile, is staring at the ceiling, taking deep, measured breathes, “In through the nose, out through the mouth, count two three four.”  A familiar rhythm to them all, even if James doesn’t speak the words aloud. 

“What are you doing?”  Alec asks, confused. “Why did you stop?”

“You didn’t give James permission to come.  He knew he would if I kept on.”

Alec is nonplussed and feels slightly wrong-footed.  He’s not sure he quite understands what has just happened, even as he feels another flush of power at the admission.  He glances at his hand, amazed his skin’s not glowing with the heat of it.

James sits up, his leaking and spit-coated cock jutting out.  He shifts, pulls in his legs and sits cross-legged beside Q, as un-self-conscious as a satyr.

“Alec, love, when we suggested this, we agreed to put  _ all  _ control in your hands.  Unless one of us safewords, which includes you, we -- Q  _ and  _ me -- follow your instructions to the letter.  We’ve also done some research.”

The tiniest sign of  _ something _ \-- James lifts a hand and scrubs at his nape -- before he continues.

“Apparently, according to the videos we found, permission to come is a thing.  A pretty common and pretty expected occurrence.”

Q snickers at this.  “It only happened in every single video we found, love.  And, if the person asking comes anyway, without permission?  They get punished.”

Alec rears back at that, his mind immediately filled with jangling chain and slimy floors and sibilant whispers.

A sharp sound, palms clapping together.

“Alec!  Hey, love!  _  Alec! _ ”  Q’s voice breaks through the gap created by the clap, and the voices in his head retreat.

“Love, not like that!  Not what you are thinking, love.”

James’ voice washes over him: firm, and confident, and void of judgement.

“Alec, this is all for fun.  The ‘punishments’ we saw are fun, for the most part, as well.”  The air quotes are clearly present in James’ tone. “They do things like ... I dunno, suck three guys off before they get to come themselves.  Or, or stand in the corner with their hands on their heads for five minutes to cool down while the play goes on without them.”

He shrugs a shoulder at Alec.  “Sometimes the person who fucked up gets a bit of a spanking.  Put across someone’s knee until their bum is rosy. But that’s it.  And even those aren’t required. Love, there are no rules here, nothing  _ has  _ to happen that you don’t want to happen.  If you want to stop, we stop. If we never start again, we never start again.  If you want to make a rule, and then punish us for breaking it, we’ll do that, too.  We just want you back. We want you to be able to be with us, if it’s like this or in some other way.  We just want _ you _ .”

Alec isn’t sure what to say, how to respond, needs time to process the words properly.  But the earnestness with which James has spoken, the raw and honest want underneath those words cannot be denied, even by the twisted wreck that is Alec’s mind.

He smiles at them, and leans back in the chair, his own erection -- and isn’t that a marvelous thought -- pressing against the material of his joggers.

“I don't recall giving you permission to stop.  Get on with it, Q. Make James come.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, these boys! What _shall_ we do with them?!


	8. Chapter 8

Never let it be said that Q cannot follow instructions.

James yelps with the speed at which Q resumes his task, and then lies back and moans, whimpers, and damn well  _ mewls  _ at the attention Q lavishes on his cock and bollocks.

“I’m close,” he grits out, and then goes rigid, back arched as Q presses a finger to his perineum and he comes, and comes, and  _ comes _ .

Q catches some of it in his mouth, and some in his hands, but a great deal of it makes it to the duvet beneath them.

Add one duvet cover to the weekend’s laundry list.

Q -- the little shit -- turns to face Alec, and opens his mouth while simultaneously holding up his sticky palms.  His tongue gleams white.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything so hot in his life.

“Stay!” Alec growls, and stands, and closes the gap between them in two strides.

He pushes down his joggers, swipes a glob from Q’s hand and then pumps himself furiously, lip clamped between his teeth in concentration, and then he is coming, groaning as his balls tighten and release, painting stripes across Q’s face and chest, James’ legs, and the duvet beneath his feet.

_ Definitely  _ adding duvet cover to the laundry list!

When Alec opens his eyes again, James is watching him, and the heat in his gaze is searing.

He doesn’t move, though, from his prone sprawl.

Neither does Q, not until Alec has tucked himself back into his joggers and retreated to the armchair.

“You.”  He points at James.

“Finish him off.”  His finger shifts to Q.

“Sir, yes sir!”  James’ grin is nothing but filth, and he moves with alacrity to obey the instruction.

He doesn’t right away swallow Q down, but licks at his palm and then slides up behind Q, presses against his back and reaches around Q.

He takes hold of Q’s cock with that slick palm and then slowly, slowly pumps his fist.

His other hand slides up Q’s flushed chest, tweaks a nipple, smearing Alec’s come across Q’s flushed skin, and then cups his throat, tilting his head back onto James’ shoulder.

His eyes flit up and latch on to Alec’s.

James holds that gaze as he turns Q’s head and kisses him, Alec’s come and James’ trickling out from between their lips as they kiss.

Alec is mesmerized, unable to look away from that searing blue.

James releases Q’s cock -- to a disgruntled sound from Q -- and lets go of Q’s neck even as he holds the kiss.  Guides each of Q’s hands, still liberally striped with cum, down between his thighs.

Watching James hold Q’s hands around Q’s cock as he sets a languid pace is just ... 

Alec forgets to breath, as he watches.

James’ eyes are burning, superheated, and he barely blinks.

Q is limp in James’ hold, hips juddering, thighs spread lewdly, displaying himself fully to Alec.

He keens against James’ lips.

And then James breaks the kiss and speaks.

“Please, sir, may I make him come?”

Alec sucks in a breath, surprise flashing across his face.  Technically, according to what he’s understood of what James said earlier, he’s already given his permission.

But God do they look hot, kneeling, flushed, Q’s teeth grit in an obvious attempt to restrain himself.

Alec is too lost in the moment to be cruel -- or to notice just how much of a thrill that ‘sir’ had sent shivering through him -- and grants the permission again with a sharp nod of his head.

James wastes no time.  Q arches back against him and in less than a minute he too -- finally -- is coming, coating their hands and his thighs and the cotton between his knees.

They slump down as the aftershocks skitter through Q’s muscles, and Alec leans back in the chair.

He tosses them a couple towels from the table beside him, and only then realises that he’d entirely forgotten about the other supplies.

Perhaps ... next time ...

He stares at the lube as James and Q wipe each other down and dab at the duvet half-heartedly before giving it up as a bad job.

They glance over at him and smile, both looking thoroughly debauched.

He’s not sure whether to smirk or not, whether he can get away with being smug or not.  Or whether, now that the desperation and passion have been spent, they will look at him again as something broken, damaged, and not worth their time.

Q drops the towel, and crawls towards Alec’s chair, sinuous and lithe despite the sharp angles of his wiry body.  He doesn’t touch Alec, but he stops beside his knee, and rests his head on the arm of the chair, looking up at Alec’s face with something akin to wonder on his own.

“That was ... Christ!  Alec, love, that was amazing!”  Q’s first words sooth something in Alec’s heart.

He looks to James, and the same satisfied expression rests on his face as well.  He shuffles closer on his knees -- nothing like Q’s graceful prowl -- and rests his head on the other chair arm.  He does not touch Alec either.

His eyes have not broken contact, and Alec can see the sincerity on his face.

“It really was, Alec.  We’re not taking the piss.  Seeing you like that, it was hot as fuck!”

Shite, now  _ he’s _ flushed and blushing.

But he can’t deny the warmth in their voices, can’t deny the earnestness in their faces.

He runs his fingers through their hair before he quite knows what happened, urging them close, pressed against his calves and knees as he guides their heads to rest on his thighs.  

Their hands curl around his ankles, and for the first time in forever an unexpected touch does not catapult him into the abyss.

He might not feel like himself, might not feel like the old Alec, the Alec from  _ before _ , but he feels ... better.  Better than he has in a long, long time.

And maybe, if he does this enough, if they allow him to do this enough, maybe, one day, he can join them.  

Can  _ re _ join them.

He’s not mended, not by a long shot, but finally -- finally! -- he has hope that he can get there.

That he  _ will  _ get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed the ride. Please let me know what you think.


End file.
